Sunday, 27 April 2014

Spring day

Already some of the blossom
Is falling; already small shells
Of white, pale petal-saucers
Are scattering the grass,
Settling into the gravel,
Preparing to rot away.
Already the first blush
Of happiness is passing;
And today we have rain.
But in the tall bamboos
The year’s first reed warbler
Is singing his raspy joy.
For all things their seasons,
Their blossoms bright and dark,
Their myriad passing days;
Ephemeral as rain,
Their ways to happiness.

No comments: